Flint Hills Bride (18 page)

“My name’s Bertha,” the woman said. “My husband’s Alfred Hoover.”

“Emily—”

“Wilson,” interrupted Anson. “Andy and Emily Wilson, that’s us.” He rose but took his time walking toward the table.

“Good to meet you,” Bertha said. As soon as she returned to the kitchen, he did an aboutface, gliding quickly to a set of shelves near the fireplace.

Emily was torn between her hunger and her need to protect this innocent couple. She lifted a slice of bread from the plate, her eyes on Anson. As long as he didn’t find anything, she needn’t interfere, she reasoned. Still, how was she to stop him if he did find something?

The immediacy of that worry ended when Mr. Hoover came inside. At the sound of the door latch, both Anson and Emily spun toward it. The man eyed Anson curiously, perhaps wondering why he was standing near the shelves instead of sitting at the table. He glanced at Emily, and she was afraid he read guilt in her eyes.

Anson let out a loud groan and, holding his side, staggered to the nearest chair. “Perhaps you or your wife would be willing to take a look at this wound,” he said.

“Good God, man, what’s wrong?” Alfred was quickly at his side, helping him out of his coat.

“I had a little accident,” Anson said, his breathing labored. Emily turned away, more disgusted by his act than the sight of his bloody shirt.

“I was trying to show the missus how to fire a gun, and the fool girl shot me.”

Emily glanced back to find Alfred turning to look at her. She supposed she should have
tried
to look guilty now, but it was too much to muster on the spur of the moment. She averted her eyes and raised the bread to her mouth.

“She tried to wrap it up a little,” Anson continued. “That was early this morning.”

“You just sit still,” the man said. “It looks like the bullet passed through the flesh on your side. I don’t think there’s any more damage than a nasty gash. I’ll get some bandages and fix you right up.”

“Much obliged,” Anson murmured.

Hearing the description of the wound made Emily feel close to fainting. She fought it. She had to eat. For her own sake and for her baby’s.

Alfred returned in a few minutes with bandages and a bottle of whiskey. Emily didn’t watch, but it sounded like more whiskey was going inside Anson than on the wound. The man probably thought Anson was in terrible pain. If he was, he had hidden it well all day.

Emily ignored the men’s conversation and concentrated on eating the bread very slowly. She had finished two slices and was wishing for a glass of milk when the woman returned with two bowls of soup. She hurried back to the kitchen for coffee and Alfred helped Anson to the table. Emily was grateful that Alfred had provided him with a clean shirt.

Anson brought the bottle along and took several pulls on it as he ate. He entertained the Hoovers with extravagant lies about himself. Emily was reminded of evenings out with Anson and his friends. It seemed
incredible that she had found his boisterousness so amusing then.

When they had finished eating, Anson and Alfred seemed content to remain at the table and continue their conversation. As long as Alfred was present, Emily deemed it safe to leave Anson. She gathered up a stack of dishes and followed Bertha to the kitchen, easily interpreting Anson’s warning glare.

In the kitchen she helped Bertha wash the dishes, wondering all the while if she should tell her about Anson. But what could the woman do? Anson had threatened to kill these kind people if she gave him away. The best thing for them would be for her and Anson to move on in the morning, leaving them none the wiser and, preferably, none the poorer.

But that wasn’t the best thing for Emily. She wanted to find Jake and tell him she was a fool to have ever thought she loved Anson. She hadn’t known what love really was until she had fallen in love with Jake. She longed to tell him how much she wanted him to be her baby’s father.

“You look so tired, dear,” Bertha said, interrupting. Emily’s thoughts.

She nodded. “It’s been a long day. But I feel so much better for having eaten.”

“You and your husband can have our bed, if you would like.”

“The floor by the fire is fine for us,” Emily protested, not liking the thought of the old couple on the hard floor.

“There’s still a bed in the loft, if you think your husband can make it up the ladder.”

If he couldn’t, it wouldn’t be the wound that
stopped him; it would be the whiskey. Somehow being alone with him in the loft seemed more revolting than in the spacious room below. Still, in the loft he wouldn’t be able to search through the couple’s belongings.

With a sigh, she realized it wasn’t up to her. Regardless of what she might decide and tell her hostess, Anson would make the choice.

By the time they rejoined the men, Anson had made considerable progress toward the bottom of the bottle. She found herself wishing he would pass out She had never seen it happen, but suspected that in the past he had been on his best behavior most of the time she was around. The better to fool her, she supposed.

Mrs. Hoover made the same offers to Anson that she had made to Emily. Anson, choosing personal comfort, pleaded pain from his wound and accepted the bedroom.

Emily smiled an apology at Bertha. Anson saw it and answered with a smirk. Emily followed Bertha out of the room, intending to help her make the bed that the old couple would share.

In the bedroom, Bertha tossed a rug off a battered trunk and opened it. “I sure hope your husband’s injury doesn’t become infected,” she said.

“Yes,” Emily answered. The door between this room and the next stood open. The men’s conversation seemed to have waned. Was it safe to try to warn Bertha of the danger? She was about to speak when her eye caught sight of Anson’s reflection in the mirror across the room. He was watching her intently.

Bertha lifted two blankets from the trunk and
straightened. She gave Emily a searching look. Perhaps she was already suspecting something was wrong. If so, it would be disastrous if she spoke of it now.

“Let me help you,” Emily said, taking the blankets from the woman. “Did you want these in the loft or by the fire?”

“By the fire, I think,” Bertha answered, gathering sheets from the trunk. “I never liked the ladder much, especially as I’ve gotten older.”

Emily forced herself to smile and left the bedroom, avoiding any glance in Anson’s direction. Alfred, it seemed, had had a few drinks from the bottle and chortled at nothing. Bertha set her stack of bedding down on a chair and turned toward the table.

“I think it’s time I rescue the bottle from you fellas,” she said.

“Put her away, Bertha,” Alfred said. “Or I won’t want to do chores in the morning.”

Emily heard the cork squeak into place and Anson’s unhappy grunt. She kept her eyes on the small fire in the grate. Bertha’s footsteps tapped toward the kitchen door and were gone.

Alfred gave a heavy sigh. “Do you need help to bed, son?”

“You propose to help me?” Anson asked with a laugh.

The old man laughed, too. “I was offering outa politeness.”

“I’ll endeavor to make it on my own.” Chair legs scraped against the wood floor. “It was a pleasure sharing your company, Mr.—”

Anson had evidently forgotten their host’s name. Mr. Hoover didn’t seem to notice.

“And a bigger pleasure sharing my bottle,” commented the old man.

Anson laughed and made it to his feet. Emily heard him come up behind her. “Let’s go to bed, wife,” he said.

Emily closed her eyes for a moment. The last thing she wanted to do was go to bed with Anson. No, she realized, the last thing she wanted was something to happen to Bertha or her slightly inebriated husband. They were not her protectors, as she had hoped, but she theirs.

She turned toward Anson and let him throw an arm across her shoulders. With her own arm around his waist, she helped him into the bedroom. He turned her loose and closed the door behind him. The room was thrown in darkness except for pale moonlight from a lone window.

“God, I’m tired,” Anson muttered, crossing the room to sit heavily on the bed. “Be a good little wife and help me off with my boots.”

“Take them off yourself,” she hissed. “I won’t help you with anything.”

Anson chuckled. “We’ll see. I think come morning, you’ll help me find the old coot’s stash.” He bent and took off his boots.

Emily sat on the far side of the bed and removed her own shoes. She unpinned her hair and braided it quickly. She hadn’t thought to bring in her carpetbag and neither had Alfred when he took care of their horses. She wouldn’t have changed clothes anyway. She crawled under the covers fully dressed.

Anson stripped down to his underwear before climbing in beside her. “You’ve got a soft spot for these old people, haven’t you?”

“They’re nice folks. They fed us, and they’re giving up their bed for us. They don’t deserve to be robbed.”

Anson laughed. “The bed is lumpy and so was the soup.”

“That’s not the point.”

They were both quiet for several minutes before Anson spoke again. “You know what’s funny.” Emily could easily imagine his grin. “The way the old lady watched you. She knew something wasn’t right between us, and you didn’t do or say anything to ease her mind. Here’s the funny part. My guess is she suspects you shot me on purpose.”

His soft chuckle seemed to fill the room.

Emily lay still, staring at the moonlight outside the window. If Anson was right, any warning she might try to make tomorrow would be misunderstood.

E
mily didn’t think she would sleep, but the ordeal of the day caught up with her as soon as the house grew quiet.

Small rustling and scraping sounds brought her awake. The first light of dawn was streaming through the window, revealing a sparsely furnished bedroom. And Anson going through a chest of drawers.

She groaned aloud. For a second as she was awakening, she had expected to find herself with Jake.

Anson clapped a hand over her mouth. “Quiet,” he muttered. “Granny’s in fixing breakfast, and the old man’s gone out to do the chores. You gonna be quiet?”

She nodded and he lifted his hand. His grin was unpleasant as he turned back to the drawers.

“Anson, please,” she whispered, tossing off the covers and sitting up. She held her head in her hands as the wave of dizziness passed. She found her shoes and put them on before joining Anson where he continued his thorough search.

“Forget it. These folks don’t have anything,” she pleaded.

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Even the poorest-looking folks keep a few dollars tucked away.”

Emily stared at him. “A few dollars! Your father’s rich, Anson. Why are you doing this?”

Anson closed a drawer and turned to glare at her. “He cut me off, the bastard. I’ve got nothing.”

He took a breath, visibly trying to regain control. He continued with exaggerated patience. “I need a stake to make a new start in Denver. It was supposed to be a new start for us.” He turned away and slowly pulled open the next drawer.

Emily shook her head. There was no reasoning with him. She had started toward the door when a soft, elated cry brought her around. Anson held a huge roll of bills and was fairly dancing as he waved it at her.

“Old coot must not believe in banks,” he whispered.

Emily felt dizzy again.

Anson tucked the money into his pants pocket “You give me away, and I’ll kill them both,” he warned, stepping closer. “I think I killed an old farmer yesterday. It was easy.”

Emily backed away from him, finding the doorknob behind her. She hoped he was lying. “I’m going to go help with breakfast.” His eyes narrowed and she added, “They’ll expect it.”

He nodded, motioning her through the door. “I’m wounded,” he whispered close to her ear, “so I’m going to go sit by the fire. They’ll expect it.”

She was glad to leave him and slip through the door
into the kitchen even though she knew the smell of brewing coffee would be even stronger there. Brewing coffee and other cooking smells. She used to love these smells, she reminded herself as she fought down a wave of nausea.

“Morning,” Bertha said cheerfully, turning around. “My, you look pale, dear.”

“I’m fine,” Emily said, looking for a chair. There was a small bench near the outside door, and she hurried toward it.

“Well, you don’t look fine.” Bertha left the stove and pressed a hand to Emily’s forehead.

Emily tried to take tiny shallow breaths. She had thought of a way to stop Anson, but she needed this woman’s help. And to get that, she needed to be able to tolerate the kitchen. She would fight down the nausea by force of will.

No, she wouldn’t. She jumped to her feet and threw open the door in one motion. Doubling over, she lost the contents of her stomach.

By the time she decided it was safe to turn back into the kitchen, Bertha was waiting for her with a damp cloth and a glass of water. And a smile. Lord, did every woman in the world know morning nausea meant a baby?

“Does your husband know?” Bertha whispered, tipping her head toward the other room.

“He’s not my husband,” Emily murmured, accepting the glass.

Bertha raised an eyebrow. Emily sighed. Now the woman thought she had left her husband and was having her lover’s baby.

She opened her mouth and closed it again. She had
been about to explain that Anson, or Andy as he had introduced himself, wasn’t the father, either. But he was. Somehow she had actually forgotten that. She felt a smile tug at her lips. She had already begun to think of Jake as her baby’s father.

The smile faded quickly. She had more immediate problems. Like gaining Bertha’s help. She heard voices in the next room. Alfred was inside now. There wasn’t much time.

Bertha gave her a disapproving scowl and returned to the stove. “Ma’am,” Emily began, following her. “Do you have any laudanum?”

“You can’t take it in your condition!”

“No. It’s for Andy.”

Bertha frowned. “If he’s in that much pain Alfred better have another look at that wound.”

Emily wanted to scream in frustration. Her stomach was churning, making it hard to think. “I’ve already checked the wound,” she said, hoping she was convincing. “It looks fine, but he doesn’t tolerate pain. City boy, you know.”

Bertha seemed reluctant, but after a moment she brought down a bottle from the top shelf of a nearby cupboard. She handed it over along with a spoon. “You can take it in to him if you think he needs a dose before breakfast.”

Bertha evidently wanted the runaway wife out of her kitchen. But Emily knew how to be persistent “He likes it in his coffee,” she said.

This got an even deeper scowl from Bertha. Emily realized she had made it sound as if Anson were dependant on the drug. She caught herself before she
smiled. Now Bertha’s opinion of Anson was almost as low as her opinion of the runaway wife.

Bertha turned her back on Emily and continued with the breakfast preparations. Emily found a cup and, trying to stay out of Bertha’s way, poured it three-fourths full of coffee.

She set the cup down on a worktable and, with her back to Bertha, poured a small dose into the coffee. She wanted to put him to sleep, not kill him, but she didn’t know how much to use. She sniffed the coffee, and her stomach turned over. The coffee smell alone could do that. She wasn’t sure if she smelled the drug or not.

She was putting the lid back on the bottle when the door burst open, startling her. She tried to hide the bottle behind her back but was too late. Anson bore down on her.

“Whatcha hiding, baby?” The voice was far more menacing than the words.

He didn’t wait for her reply but jerked her around and snatched the bottle away. He smiled a cruel smile, one hand still gripping Emily’s arm. “Tell me what you were planning, little girl.”

“Nothing. It was for me. I have a headache.” She could just imagine what Bertha was thinking now. The runaway wife had planned to poison her lover.

Anson set the bottle down on the table with measured movements. “I see. Well then, go ahead and drink your doctored coffee.”

Emily was afraid to breathe. Anson could surely read terror in her eyes. When she didn’t move, he lifted the cup with his free hand and held it out to her. She waited until it was in front of her face, then
jerked up her hands, knocking the cup away. The contents flew into his face.

He swore, releasing her arm. She backed away, looking around the room for a weapon, noticing the Hoovers staring at them in shock.

Anson recovered more quickly than she expected. His hand flew out, hitting her on the side of her head. She was flung to the floor, one hand extending to break her fall, the other wrapping around her stomach.

“Don’t! The baby!” she heard Bertha scream.

She recovered as quickly as she could, needing to see what Anson would do next. The door to the main room stood open. Alfred had probably gone to get a gun. But Anson was already armed. He stood glaring down at her.

“Baby?” he scoffed.

The outside door burst open. Emily turned, expecting to see Alfred. “Jake.” She wasn’t sure if she spoke the beloved name aloud.

“That’s right,” Jake said, advancing on Anson, his gun drawn. “My baby. My wife.”

Anson was too stunned to move. Jake disarmed him and left Alfred, who had returned with a double-barreled shotgun, in charge of him.

A moment later, Jake was at Emily’s side, lifting her into his arms. “How did you find me?” she asked.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “You left quite a trail.”

“But Anson found out and—”

“I know. That confused me for a time, and the trail was harder to follow without your help, but I never lost it, Emily.”

Bertha approached with another damp cloth. Jake thanked her as he took it and held it to Emily’s bruised cheek.

“I reckon we oughta eat,” she said. The woman’s face was a picture of curiosity.

Jake helped Emily to her feet. “Do you want breakfast?” he asked softly.

“You know, I think I might,” she said, laughing.

She realized Anson was glaring at her, his hands raised, and the Hoovers both looked mystified.

“Let me make some introductions,” she said. “Bertha and Alfred Hoover. This is Deputy Jake Rawlins. That—” she pointed “—is Anson Berkeley. I’m Emily…Rawlins.” She couldn’t resist launching herself into Jake’s arms as she said the last.

She would have been content to stay wrapped in his arms forever, but the sound of horses and a shout made Jake set her gently aside.

“Now what?” Mr. Hoover muttered.

Jake went through the house and peered cautiously out the front window. Emily followed him into the main room and watched him open the front door to admit the sheriff.

“Did you catch him this time?” boomed the sheriff.

“He’s in the kitchen,” Jake answered.

The sheriff stuck his head outside and called to two of the men. Jake officially turned Anson over to them.

When they were leading him toward the door, Emily stepped forward. “Wait! He’s got the Hoovers’ money in his right pants pocket.”

The sheriff searched him roughly, handing the roll of bills over to a grateful Alfred.

“Now, there’s the small matter of my horse,” he said to Anson. “I understand you took it from the deputy here.”

“I turned him loose,” Anson replied with a smile. “Sorry.”

“Ah, hell. Beg your pardon, ma’am. I liked that horse.”

Anson shrugged.

“Get him back to town,” barked the sheriff.

“My mare and Emily’s gelding are both in the barn,” Jake cut in. “You can put Berkeley on the horse I rented. He’s tied behind the barn.”

The deputies nodded and led Anson out the door.

“Sheriff, he turned your horse loose when he laid the false trail,” Emily offered. “I might be able to find the place.”

“The false trail?” The sheriff nodded. “I know the place. I split the posse up when the side trail only showed two horses, besides Jake’s. I reckon the rest of the posse might find my horse.”

Bertha again suggested breakfast The sheriff stayed and ate with them, assuring Bertha that his deputies had food along and would feed Anson. Emily wasn’t sure that anybody else had thought to worry about that. She certainly hadn’t.

An hour later the three of them were on their way back to Council Grove. Bertha had packed a lunch, and they stopped at noon and had a picnic. It would have been quite romantic, Emily thought, except the sheriff was along. He dominated the conversation most of the day, offering advice on anything from marriage to tracking. Jake listened intently, or seemed to.

By early afternoon, Emily didn’t care if the sheriff knew she was bored. She was so tired she didn’t think she could stay in the saddle. She wondered how she had managed the day before. Surely she had survived simply out of necessity. Why did it seem next to impossible to do it again?

“Hold up a second,” Jake said. “Come over here, before you fall asleep.”

Jake helped her climb onto his lap. This was definitely where she belonged. When she was settled, he kicked the mare into motion again.

“You gonna just trust that gelding to follow?”

Jake glanced toward the sheriff and back at the gelding, trailing a ways behind. “It worked once before.”

The sheriff muttered something about foolish boys and rode back to gather the gelding’s reins. In a moment he was riding alongside again. He opened his mouth once to say something, glanced down at Emily’s sleeping face, and closed it again.

Jake tried not to smile. He wished he had thought of this sooner.

Emily closed her eyes and let Jake’s strong shoulder cushion her head against the jolting of the train. They were on their way home at last.

By the time they had ridden into Council Grove they had long since missed the train and had spent another night at the Hays House. The room was the same one they had shared before, producing instant memories as soon as they had walked through its door. Neither of them had gotten much sleep.

Emily laughed softly, thinking of the fun they had had most of the night and half the morning.

“What?” Jake whispered close to her ear.

“Just thinking,” she answered.

“Come on, share. I could use a laugh.”

“All right,” she said, feeling her cheeks warm. “I was just thinking about…being tickled.”

“Yeah? Was I the one doing the…tickling?”

“Of course.”

He snuggled her a little closer, but when he spoke again, his voice was serious. “Emily, we haven’t talked about what we’re going to do. I have a job but the pay’s not real good. I could go back to working for your brother—”

She turned to place her fingers on his lips and shifted so she could watch his face. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to make you happy.”

“I know, sweetheart,” she whispered seductively, “but we can’t do that all the time.”

He laughed. “All right. I want to become a lawyer.”

Emily couldn’t hide her surprise. “Since when?”

“I don’t know. Since being a deputy didn’t turn out to be exactly what I expected. I’ve tried to put money away for school, but it isn’t accumulating very fast.”

“Jake, I know some wealthy folks who might consider investing in our future. In fact, for taking me off their hands, they’d probably be happy to.”

“You think so? I hate asking your family for favors.”

“Really? I‘m used to it.”

Jake laughed. “We can work all this out later. Come back here where you belong.”

When she was snuggled in his arms again, she said, “I’m glad we’re going to be home for Christmas, but to be honest, Jake, I’m a little worried about facing my family after acting like such a fool. I must have worried them sick.”